


Change Me

by karlamartinova



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 15:43:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17327837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karlamartinova/pseuds/karlamartinova
Summary: John sees him, John finally sees him.





	Change Me

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted from my LJ. Beta'ed by mygoldebuttons on LJ.

John is glad that this time there is nobody to force him to go and visit his therapist. He knows he should, his nightmares are getting worse and the tremors in his hand returned too. But he had to be strong; the danger is still lurking around.

They never found Moriarty's body and even though they know he wouldn’t have a chance to survive, they are all alert. Everyone except Sherlock, which bothers John on many levels. Something happened; they almost died because of some lunatic who wanted to be smarter than Sherlock Holmes.

John is afraid that it could end the same way with his friend.

But John fears he isn’t far along after him. In the night, when the nightmares are haunting him, he counts his ribs down and back up. And his hand slips, his hand always slips. John thinks about Sherlock then.

Sherlock is different and the same. He still runs across London to solve a puzzle, makes Lestrade’s people hate him, but he smirks when Sally calls him “freak” and brings fresh milk from Tesco on the corner. Then he tells him the life story of the cashier.

And John wants to laugh but there is wariness in Sherlock’s eyes, he isn’t sure if it’s always there but it is there when he looks at him and he looks at him a lot.

“Your boyfriend is staring at you,” a young bartender tells him when they are at the bar following a suspect and John doesn’t feel like correcting her. What for? She is a stranger and they won’t ever see her again (he does hope, because Sherlock’s trail always leads them to the same places).

He doesn’t say anything because he is enjoying it too.

The evening ends with a chase through Tower Bridge and when they finally come home, they laugh like lunatics. It’s like the first time, but John knows it’s different. He wasn’t looking sideway at Sherlock then, wasn’t admiring his profile and his hands weren’t itching to touch his.

Mrs. Hudson finds them like that and ushers them into their flat and prepares them tea talking about the new series she started to watch. They laugh with her and smile with her and it feels so utterly normal, that John is absolutely sure there won’t be nightmares that night.

There are and he is staring for good twenty minutes at his phone. John didn’t erase the number of his therapist. He figured out he might needed sometimes if Sherlock drives him nuts. But John isn’t sure she could help him with this.

“John,” there is Sherlock’s muffled voice behind his door and he shoots up from the bed. Does Sherlock know? Does he have some radar that knows when he is thinking about him? Wanting him?

He stops near the door, wants to open it, stops his hand three times before he speaks.

“Go to sleep, Sherlock.”

To his own shock, he does.

Next day there is a package on their doorstep. It’s a puzzle, something metal looking like an odd looking key chain.

Sherlock solves it in two minutes and throws it to the trash. When he leaves that morning, John takes it out, cleans it and hides it in his room. Why, he doesn’t know but it seems important that day.

Three days later, Lestrade calls them in the middle of the dinner. The case sounds interesting enough for Sherlock not to look back at John while he dresses. It’s strange, John got used to his look, he needs to feel. It makes him feel safe (and loved but he would never ever admit that).

The body is found in a cemetery.

It isn’t difficult to guess that the murder was a ritual one, with candles and dead animals around the body but Sherlock keeps circling the scene and murmuring that it isn’t right. “It was moved,” he says and John can’t understand how he could know, it’s so bloody dark outside.

When Sherlock circles for the fourth time, he suddenly stops and kneels by the body. Anderson is already protesting but Lestrade puts his hand on his chest to stop him.

Sherlock pushes the dead body and pick something up. Both Lestrade and Anderson move closer to him but he turns to John, shows him the metal object he threw into the trash three days ago. The look Sherlock gives him then, makes his skin crawl.

…

Lestrade wants them to move to safer location; somewhere they can watch him, stop any lunatic from slitting their throats. John doesn’t think there exists such place. Danger follows Sherlock like lovesick puppy, he can’t escape it and John can’t escape Sherlock.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says to the all too quiet room and John drops his cup. It ends on the carpet with a soft thud and he doesn’t move to pick it up. He is too shocked, too scared and he wants to move, wants to take Sherlock’s hand in his, oh and wants so much more.

“It’s not your fault,” John says even though it’s a lie, of course it’s his fault. Only John couldn’t bring himself to blame him for anything.

“John, why is that? Why are you still putting your trust in me? It was me who nearly killed you, not Moriarty,” he leans to pick the cup then and John realizes that he wanted to ask this for some time that those words were carefully thought of. Sherlock prepared them with one goal only.

“I’m not leaving you,” John says firmly, stands from his chair, moves closer to Sherlock.

But Sherlock doesn’t wait for him, takes the cup to the kitchen, and stops briefly only to deliver his last words of the speech.

“Maybe you should, John. Maybe you really should.”  
…

When after three weeks no more packages arrive, no more bodies are found with strange object around them, John feels all too relieved just to find strange comments on his blog.

He didn’t check his messages for some time.

“You’ll burn with him, his mere presence will cost you more than your life, dear John.”

John knows immediately who wrote that. He checks more of his posts, find this one under every single one and realizes they were written just for him to see, just for him and…

“Sherlock, why didn’t you tell me about this?” he asks and shoves the computer into his hands. He doesn’t even look, puts the computer on the coffee table in front of him. John wants to be angry, wants to yell and smash the door, just for once.

“I didn’t see a point of showing you, they would only upset you,” Sherlock answers, his voice carrying the ever present calmness.

“So you decided to upset me instead, Christ, Sherlock do you know what this means?”

He doesn’t answer and John wonders if it’s because he doesn’t know or he is afraid of the answer as he is.

In the evening they get a call from Lestrade. They found a body, burned.  
…

John looks out of the window, tries to find reassurance in the two police cars parked on the street, tries to imagine how Sherlock feels, tries to hope that he doesn’t see fear as a weakness. John doesn’t want to be weak to him but he can’t help it, can’t help the fear that it’s crawling up his spine.

John isn’t afraid of death. She was his ultimate companion in Afghanistan, she followed him, took away his friends but there was time, when John thanked her. They were at a better place, better than hot dry desert with their guts lying next to them.

No, John is afraid of something else. He is afraid of that look, that look of betrayal he had seen on Sherlock that day. He is afraid how much more he could break, how much more he could lose because when he turns from the window, sees Sherlock playing his violin he sees things far much worse than death.

“It’s not Moriarty,” Sherlock exclaims all of sudden, puts the violin next to him. There is a spark in his eyes; John didn’t see it there for a long time. He doesn’t know it’s there always when Sherlock looks at him.

“How?” his question is simple, John feels too tired to try and think in the complicated way Sherlock does.

Sherlock is excited, he paces the room, he body buzzing positively and John feels hope, hope that it might end well for them. That he might have time to tell him.

“Don’t you see John? It’s random, too random. He would have it all planned too precisely. Moriarty wouldn’t want to scare us, he would want to give us a sense of safety,” Sherlock stops pacing and John realized that he was afraid too; it feels too good to know that Sherlock uses this human emotion too.

“But who is doing it then? He knows us, your love for puzzles, those words Moriarty used at the pool, it can’t be random,” John argues, finally tangles himself in Sherlock’s thinking, sees the same clues, stands opposite to help him.

“He knew Moriarty but it’s not him,” he says because he knew it all along. “I have to go,” Sherlock turns touches the door handle and John sees his nightmare coming true in front of his eyes, sees him leaving and not coming back, sees the empty basket, flowers that fade, he himself crumbling to the floor.

“Sherlock, wait,” his voice has to sound desperate because he actually turns. “We should think this over, plan where to start.”

John sounds reasonable to himself but doubts that Sherlock will listen to him. But he does, he closes the door carefully and turns to him. And John sees how much that one night changed him; he sees the crack in his façade, sees emotions seeping slowly out.

He wants to touch him, wants to finally speak but he doesn’t. Instead John says him to sit down, makes tea and they talk, take notes, plan and it’s too good to be true. That Sherlock is actually listening to him, taking his warning and John knows there is a “but” hidden somewhere.

He finds out next morning when Sherlock isn’t anywhere in the flat and there is a note with one word “sorry” pinned to the fridge.  
…

Lestrade looks even angrier than John feels.

“What the fuck does he think? Or does he think at all?”

At this point, John only feels frustration. He should have know, it was too easy, Sherlock never did what was expected from him He stayed just to make John calm, only to disappear later. He got fooled but the fridge got the first wave of anger half an hour before.

“He doesn’t want me to get involved,” John whispers, he feels beaten. He always wanted Sherlock to behave like human being, to care but it turned against him in a heartbeat.

Lestrade sees the fear on his face, sees more than he should and exhales loudly. “Okay, what did you two talk about before he disappeared?”

John tells him about Sherlock’s deduction, about those comments. That they knew it wasn’t Moriarty behind those murders. There weren’t more findings last night; they just talked, really talked. About what they should do, where they could find them, him, whoever was being paid from the grave.

They went again through all the files, autopsy reports, and everything they knew about Moriarty.

The plan was to lure the culprit out, to act as it was Moriarty. They suspected that he would be watching, following them. They planned to let Lestrade know and for once, it was a good plan, not an insane one that could get them both killed.

When John finishes, there is a small smile in on inspector's face. “I suspected you’ll do him good.”

If the situation would be any different, John would be thanking him. But it wasn’t and it all becomes worse when Donovan enters the flat with a very grim expression on her face.

“There was an explosion in the tube, they saw freak there.” And for once, the nickname doesn’t sound vicious.

…

John feels the water pushing him down, feels the heat from the explosion burn his skin, he feels Sherlock struggling with his coat, he feels too many things and none of them are real. He kept pushing memories from his mind, kept hoping it will all just stop in time.

John had dealt with war, he could with this too. But when he closes his eyes and sees Sherlock’s face even paler than usually, there is an uncomfortable sting in his eyes.

“We're there,” Lestrade yells over the sound of sirens and John opens his eyes and follows him out of the car. The sight around him very painfully reminds him of terrorist attacks seen on TV. Ambulances are parked along the street, people being tended on the ground and the smell. The smell awake more memories than John would like.

“Where is he?” he asks expecting a nod toward one of the bodies.

Lestrade shakes his head and John visibly relaxes. But the grim look doesn’t go away and when another officer approaches them, it isn’t difficult to guess that the good news is ending there.

“He chased the bomber down the tube, sir. We lost them both a while ago. They must be in the sewers,” he speaks overly formally and John wants to punch just for the feeling. Sherlock isn’t a suspect, he doesn’t have the right. He takes a few calming breaths and runs to the stairs.

The bomb had to explode in the hall; there is a big hole in the ceiling. John can see the sun; it’s not a good metaphor.

He hears Lestrade yelling after him but he tries to concentrate, tries to remember what Sherlock always told him about sewers. “They are important, John. By knowing them you can escape any crime scene.”

Which only means they could lead anywhere in the city but with explosion this strong, they had to get far enough away. John counts in his head, counts how far they would feel the heat, how far away would the shrapnel from the metal objects in the hall follow them.

John tries to think as Sherlock, but his heart is beating too fast. He is distracted but he starts to run anyway, south. It leads to the centre, it’s a logical assumption. His lungs burn and after a half mile, there is Sherlock’s scarf lying near the sewer shaft.

He feels like laughing, he doesn’t need to be brilliant like Sherlock. He just needs HIM to be.

John enters the shaft carefully, it’s very narrow and he tries to imagine how Sherlock fit in there. To his luck, the shaft goes only one way and after few minutes of wandering, he can finally hear voices.

One of them definitely doesn’t belong to Sherlock, the other one obviously does.

“I never understood Jim's obsession with you. You aren’t as clever as they think, are you?” the man opposite Sherlock says. John is hiding behind the corner but he needs just one look to weight their choices.

The man has his gun turned on Sherlock who was armed too; John had looked for his gun right after he found out that he disappeared. The detective obviously doesn’t want to show his advantage, he waits for the first mistake, for a distraction.

He led John here to be one.

He looks around for something that can cause a noise, for something he can throw but sewers are lacking anything useful. In the end, it’s only his phone that can fulfill this task. John takes a few calming breaths and throws is across the shaft. The noise is loud enough and the gunshot resonates through the shaft mere seconds after it.

But when John steps from behind the corner he is grabbed by Sherlock.

“There is another bomb, run!” he yells and John doesn’t need to hear more. Adrenaline kicks in and he follows the detective through the shaft. They are almost in the tunnel when Sherlock grabs him and pushes him against the wall, covers him with his body.

John doesn’t ask, doesn’t fight him, sometimes he doesn’t understand how much he trust this man, he would put his life into his hands any time.

The explosion comes just as flow of hot air at their sides, but John doesn’t feel it. He is busy feeling the body heat of his flat mate, his warm breath at the side of his head. John isn’t sure if Sherlock realized that he their bodies are practically tangled together but he wasn’t about to warn him about it. The sensation is everything he expected these past few weeks, everything he wanted and wants and when Sherlock finally pulls away his hands stay near John’s head ready to touch.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers and there is so much in his eyes, so much desperation that John wants to scream. Instead he grabs his head and kisses him. Sherlock reacts immediately, pushing his body back to Johns. It’s enough, they’re alive, they survived.

When the need for air forces them to pull apart, Sherlock leans his forehead against John’s. “If anything happened…” he starts to speak but John cuts him off with another kiss, whispers “it’s okay” into his mouth.

It’s the sound of someone running that finally makes them move. It's Lestrade, he looks scared and older than John ever saw him.

“Good God, you both have some explaining to do.”  
…

They decide to postpone the explaining and instead take a cab to Baker Street. The ride is quiet and John only speaks when they enter the flat.

“Tea?” he asks instead of “are you okay?” because he knows he is not. They came this close to dying for second time in few months, together they survived but for how long? How long till another of Moriarty's lunatic finds them, separates them, kills them?

“Yes, please,” Sherlock answers and watches Johns back disappear into the kitchen. He puts the kettle on, takes the cups out of the cupboard and stares at his hands. John doesn’t know what to do anymore. There, in the darkness, it was easier, to change the adrenaline into hot kisses. To make sure that Sherlock is breathing and alive but now, now he isn't sure about anything.

Sherlock appears behind him like an answer, puts his hand of top of his and lets him take the weight of his body.

“John,” he whispers and it makes John shiver, makes his body hum with expecting. “I don’t know how to deal with fear, how to tell you that I fear the day when I don’t manage to run fast enough, when you step in the wrong place at the wrong time. How I am supposed to live with that?”

John knows it’s a rhetorical question, knows what Sherlock means and he smiles a little, thinks about the last time when someone told him he loves him. It never quite felt like this.

He turns quickly, holds those hands, hands of the artist and worker. “Let me deal with that,” he says just before he claims Sherlock’s lips once more. There isn’t much time to waste, they both love danger, live on adrenaline and just before John turns his mind off, just before the door on his room finally closes, he finally understands how much alike they really are.


End file.
